Black Beast (13 page)

The witch should have known, then, that shape-shifters were notorious for harboring grudges that could span decades, hunting down offenders with the single-mindedness of a predator, tracking them across entire continents, even. What he had done to her was a grave offense; shifters had embarked on vendettas with far less provocation.

It hadn't been a show of mercy on his part, either. No, he had been toying with her, like a cat with a wounded mouse—and he had enjoyed it, too. Catherine knew; she could smell his obvious pleasure, how it had bordered on the sexual. It had her feel ill.

If the witch had been hunting her for sport that explained the stalling, but not why he had taken such great pains not to harm her. If he had only been trying to capture her, to dominate her, subjugation would have been simple. He was larger, and without her powers she was easy prey. He could have done worse, she admitted.

Cruelty, then? That seemed closer than the other options, at least, but still wasn't quite right.

She was glad when the bus pulled up to the curb. She handed the driver her crumpled, soaking fare and slunk towards the back of the bus. The rocking motions of the vehicle as it rolled over the bumpy road helped disguise the trembling in her legs. Even so, she had to cling tightly to the steel support rail to keep from sliding right off her seat. She was shaking so badly.

For the first time in her life, she felt like Prey—and
only
Prey; it was a sobering experience.

Chapter Four

Catherine had been careful on her way back home, doubling back multiple times to erase her trail, and to ensure she wasn't being followed.

About the bus route itself she could do nothing—it was a fixed route, and it would be all too easy for the witch to track her on it. Luckily, the bus stop was several blocks away from her actual house, so even if the witch made it this far, he wouldn't necessarily find where she lived.

But he knows my name
.

And that was a problem, him knowing her name. There was a grain of truth in Celtic folklore, that knowing someone's name let you own a part of their soul.
It certainly makes you easier to find.

And there was nothing to stop him from, say, using a glamor to make her neighbors think he was a human cop and then interrogating them about a delinquent and suspected vandal named Catherine Pierce.

Fuck
, she thought, with a bolt of real terror.
He could find me by tomorrow.

Maybe he wouldn't think of it. Witches weren't born hunters. Not like shape-shifters. The tracking instinct was not as ingrained.

Don't need to think; common sense
, Predator growled.

Catherine looked up at the blank windows of her house. The lights were all off.

Catherine's mother was an adjunct professor at a nearby college. Her father was a chemical engineer at the local power plant. Her mother had an early faculty meeting tonight and her father worked the graveyard shift, so neither of them were there to see her arrive in such a sorry state. Good. That gave her some time to think over her story.

Her younger brother, Lucas, was home, but hopefully he was already in his room for the evening doing whatever middle school boys did in their free time.

Yeah, fat chance.

The moment she opened the door she caught sight of him standing there, arms folded. As if he were a miniature version of their father.

“Mom told me to tell you that you're in huge trouble,” he said, “and you can forget—”

His eyes grew big and round as he took in her torn and muddy clothing, the defeated expression on her face.

“—
borrowing the car,” he finished, his voice breaking. “Gods, what's happened to you?”

“There's a storm,” she said tightly. “Biggest in years. Made the news and everything. Look out the window.”

“But you're covered in mud and dirt and you—” he sniffed, frowning. “Is that smoke?”

“No.”

Lucas trailed after her through the kitchen. He was five years younger—and five inches taller. It was very depressing. It also made him difficult to ignore.

“It is, isn't it?”

“Fuck off,” she said, showing him her back.

“Were you smoking?” When she didn't respond, he persisted. “Mom's going to kill you!”

“I was not smoking, you little shit.”

“Have you added arson to your list of misdemeanors?”

Her behavior was common knowledge in the Pierce household. Lucas was the 'good' one. At least, he was never caught. She resented him; her parents often upheld him as an example, and she felt that as she was older, it should have been the other way around. Lucas knew this and he delighted in mocking her, but she often suspected he was envious of her, as well.

Mostly because he didn't dare.

“Go make love to a tube sock,” she suggested.

“Seriously, what were you doing?”

“Drop it, Lucas. I'm serious. Leave me
alone
.”

“Tell me,” he whined. “If you don't tell me, you know I'm totally going to go to Mom.”

“You'll bitch to Mom anyway.”

“Maybe not.”

He had her in the corner and knew it. She rolled her eyes, affecting weary insouciance. “I got caught in the storm, like I told you. There was a really tall tree nearby and lightning struck it. Hence the smoke, genius.”

Catherine was pleased with herself. It almost sounded credible.

Lucas's eyes went to the hall window that looked out at the street. A roll of thunder made the glass panes shiver in their frames. “Are you all right?”

“Why wouldn't I be? It was the tree that got hit, not me.”

“What about the mud on you? And the burrs?”

Her smile faded, then disappeared entirely. “I fell.”

“Where?”

Gods, he was persistent. Maybe worse than their mom, if that was possible.

She hesitated, trying to think of somewhere plausible she could have fallen, and Lucas pounced.

“You were in the hills! You
were
,” he insisted, when she opened her mouth to argue. “I knew it! You smell like pine trees!”

Catherine looked nervously at the door. “Shut up.”

“You're not supposed to go there. Mom told you not to. And I bet you were shifting,
t—
”

“Shut the hell up, dammit!”

She clapped her hand over his mouth hard enough to leave a mark. His dark blue eyes regarded her with angry triumph over the wall of her fingers. But she wasn't seeing that. She was seeing his eyes closed—closed forever—his body cold, and still.

If the witch found her family, he would not hesitate to use them against her. Witches were ruthless that way.

Lucas tensed, smelling her fear. Then he licked the palm of her hand. Catherine pulled back her arm as if she'd been burned, cursing.

“Don't you say a word—and don't fucking lick me.”

“Mom's going to be so pissed, I bet she'll forget all about that D I got in math.”

Not only would she be pissed, she was going to ask questions. Questions Catherine couldn't answer.

Not without endangering the family.

Family comes first
, Predator agreed.

Catherine drew herself up. “You better not.”

“Yeah? Or what?”

“Or Mom's going to find out what really happened to that so-called 'stolen' coat of yours.”

Mrs. Pierce had bought Lucas an expensive Burberry coat. He didn't want to wear it because one of his douchebag classmates had told him that it made him look gay. Every morning they fought over it, until, one day, Lucas came home looking upset and told her the coat had been stolen.

Catherine knew for a fact that it wasn't. She'd seen it stuffed into one of their neighbors' trash cans, mauled beyond recognition. Like a cat or a wolf had gotten to it. Probably, one had.

One named Lucas.

His eyes became slits. “You wouldn't.”

“Try me,” she snapped.

He called her a name their mother would have smacked him for. She held her ground. Lucas repeated the name, then marched into his room, slamming the door behind him so hard that she knew she'd won.

For the moment.

A moment's all I need.